


What Comes After the Fall

by FogDog1738



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (Which is also a slow build-ish), Blood and Violence, Character Death, Dead Claudia Stilinski, Dead Sheriff Stilinski, Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Derek Hale and Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings, Derek Hale is a Failwolf, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Fluff, Good Parent Melissa McCall, Gore, Heavy Angst, Hurt Derek Hale, Hurt Stiles Stilinski, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Murder, Mute Stiles Stilinski, Past Kate Argent/Derek Hale, Peter Hale & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Slow Burn, Stiles Stilinski Deserves Nice Things, Stiles Stilinski Doesn't Know About Werewolves, Stiles Stilinski Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Stiles Stilinski Is An Orphan, Trauma, Warning: Kate Argent, Werewolf Reveal, ghost communication, graveyard AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:36:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29563395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FogDog1738/pseuds/FogDog1738
Summary: Stiles Stilinski was orphaned at the age of 16 after witnessing the murder of his parents. In a blur of emotions, Stiles finds himself spending most, if not all, his days at the graveyard in which his parents were buried. Finding himself not able to physically talk to people, Stiles must learn to trust people again. After the death of Peter Hale, the previous graveyard keeper, Derek Hale steps into his shoes in a final attempt to find some semblance of a reason to exist. He meets Stiles and must learn about his past and how his family connects with his.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 35
Kudos: 38





	1. The Night it Happened

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Asterekmess (Livinginfictions)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Livinginfictions/gifts), [Swordsoul2000](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swordsoul2000/gifts).



> So this is my first multi-chapter fic that I have ever written. Honestly, it's my first multi-chapter ANYTHING, but I'm excited the share it! This idea came to me literally randomly and I was like "yes, I want to write it", so here it is!
> 
> Before reading, I must again warn that this fic is very much explicit and goes into detail about a lot of triggering things (violence, gore, murder, non-con (not so much, but it's implied), suicide (also implied/talked about), etc.) and if you are at all worried about those things, it may be best to lean away from this fic. I have let myself run free to write this without a super thick filter.
> 
> Despite knowing exactly how this fic is going to pan out, I have not written it all yet. In fact, this is all I have written so far. But don't be worried! I DEFINITELY plan on finishing this. I have too much motivation to finish this to just leave it be with no warning.
> 
> All mistake are my own (I have chosen no beta for this fic), and please, please PLEASE let me know if you find additional tags that should be added to the fic. I will definitely add them if need be for future people reading this fic. I tried my best to cover as many bases as I could, but I always make mistake somewhere.
> 
> So, I hope you enjoy!

Eyes slowly blink open as Stiles’ vision focuses on the lights shining through his bedroom curtains. The lights blind him for a second, his hands quickly trailing up to cover his eyes. Glancing over at the clock on the bedside table, Stiles reads 3:34am. There is no way it should be this bright. 

Stiles lays there for a moment more before his eyes adjust enough for him to flip his blankets off and slide out of bed. The carpet is soft as his feet land on it, providing some comfort as he shuffles over to the curtains. 

Drawing them back, he quickly glances around at the world outside the glass. The moon is covered by the dark clouds in the sky, barely allowing it to illuminate his street. Porch lights shimmer off of the wet asphalt; it had rained after Stiles drifted off into sleep. However, all of this was covered by the filter of lights shining up from his driveway. 

Barely able to look down towards the source, Stiles makes out a slight outline of a red car, parked perfectly in his driveway to light up his entire house. A couple black cars were filed in behind the red one, completely blocking the driveway.

He could count a few bodies shifting around the cars. It’s only when the headlights of the car fade that Stiles realizes they’re making their way to the front door of the house, guns in hand, seemingly ready for a fight.

His heart skips a beat as he steps back quickly, forcing the curtains closed. He turns around, eyes scanning the room for something to grab; for anything that could be used as a weapon. His mind races at the thought of what he just saw.

‘Why do they have guns’? ‘Why are they at my family’s house’? ‘What did we do to make them angry’? ‘Are my parents awake yet’? ‘What are they going to do to us’? ‘Maybe this is just a dream, maybe I’m just seeing-’

His thoughts get swiftly interrupted by his father forcing open the bedroom door, whispering at him aggressively. 

“We have to move. Downstairs.  _ Now!” _

Without hesitation, Stiles moves to the corner of his room and grabs his baseball bat that his father had bought him for when he tried baseball in middle school. It was wooden, but it could still create some hurt if someone tried to come at anyone in his family.

He couldn’t let any of them get hurt.

As he moves through his doorway, his mother grabs his wrist, yanking him down the stairs. He struggles to keep his balance and not trip down the stairs. Tripping would be funny in any other circumstances, but now it would only provide another clue that the Stilinski’s were inhabiting the house. 

The stairs lead straight down to the front door. As they stepped down onto the hardwood carefully, they took a U-turn to start heading down the hallway as knocking abruptly echoes throughout the house. Stiles instinctively turns his head to the sound but continues to walk with his family, his mother’s hand letting Stiles’ wrist move freely again, pushing him in front of her. They couldn’t waste any time. 

The stairs to the basement lay directly under the stairs to the second floor. So once Stiles trailed his father down the stairs, the sound of the front door crashing open and gunshots filling up the air were something he could hear without any visual as to who was shooting.

Or at who.

Stabilizing his feet on two steps, Stiles jerks his head around. The shooting continues, the guns lighting up the hallway for only milliseconds at a time. Turning tail, Stiles shoots back up the stairs.

“Stiles, no!” his father yells behind him, but his mind was already distracted by a very aching thought.

His mom was not behind them, making her way down the stairs with them. So the only logical thing the people could be shooting at was his mother.

His vision blurs at the dread that fills his entire body. His eyes widen, heart racing a million miles an hour. His hand shakily grabs the door frame, his weight swinging around the corner to look down the hallway. But before he could see anything, he hits what feels like a brick wall in front of him. 

He stumbles back, hand letting go of the doorframe, his body preparing to fall backwards. Before he could, however, a strong hand grabs at the collar of his t-shirt, providing a support. It’s an awkward way to be held, but it allows Stiles to ground his feet and attempt to swing his bat at the intruder. It proves to be null and void in the moment as the man’s other hand grabs the bat as it swings toward him, a small grunt forcing out from his chest.

The bat is violently yanked from his grip and thrown behind him. His t-shirt pulls tighter around his body as Stiles feels his feet lift from the ground, his entire body moving up quickly and then forcefully down toward the ground. His feet slide out from under him, the man shoving Stiles down onto his back with a loud thud. His breath escapes him, lungs desperately attempting to bring in more air. 

He hears yelling at his side as the man who shoved him down lets Stiles go, moving his focus over to his dad. Stiles struggles to inhale, turning his body over to crawl at the man’s legs. But everything moves too fast and his dad is pinned up against the open basement door, unable to move.

“Don’t touch my son!” he screams, “I’ll kill you if I have to!”

As Stiles continues to crawl toward the intruder, a foot forces him flat on the ground, his breath getting shoved out of his lungs once again. He lets out a whine at the searing pain, tears welling in his eyes. 

“Don’t hurt him! Don’t fucking hurt him!” Stiles breathes out, the pressure from behind him seemingly crushing his chest into itself.

“Stiles, don’t struggle. We’re the ones they want.”

Stiles’ brain flashes back thirty seconds, remembering that his mom didn’t follow them down the stairs. He struggles to adjust his head to a position to see down the hall, the person stepping on him bending down toward his ear.

“Might not want to look that way, kid.” A woman whispers into his ear. 

Stiles heart stops, his breathing desperately trying to quicken. His vision begins to blur more at the loss of air. “What did you do to her,” he chokes.

“You really want to know, little guy? I don’t think you want to know,” she answers.

Stiles wriggles under her boot, continuing to get a clear visual of his mother. “Stil一Stiles! I said don’t struggle,” his dad reminds him, being shoved up against the door again.

But the peripherals of his vision catch another body laying on the ground down the hallway. A faint view of blood is caught as Stiles’ brain starts to catch up.

His mother is dead, and she was laying in a pool of her own blood. Well, he couldn’t confirm she was dead一she could be knocked out一but it was probably safe to assume that these people, these  _ murderers, _ had killed his mother. 

“No,” Stiles lets out shyly, his voice reduced to breathy tones that could barely be heard, “Mom, no.” Tears break free from his eyes, running down his cheek and quickly dripping onto the hard flooring beneath him.

The woman above him lets out a small giggle. “Maybe stop enjoying this so much and let's get them tied and moved to the other room.” The man ordered.

While the woman’s foot pushes down steadily on Stiles’ back, she’s thrown a small rope and bends down again to forcefully wrap it around Stiles’ wrist. The ropes burn into his skin as she tightens the knot, rendering any hand movements useless and only inducing pain as Stiles tries to find a semi-comfortable wrist placement. 

With a short lift of her foot, Stiles is able to breathe again. His lungs expand violently and his throat gasps for every molecule of air the inhale could pull into his body. As the feeling of air in his lungs relieves the blurriness that covered his vision, a blunt pain covers his entire chest, making his breath hitch as he continues to breathe.

“You killed her,” Stiles croaks, his breathing stabilizing.

“Honey, we only do what we have to do to keep our town safe.” The woman yanks up on Stiles arms as he struggles to find a footing on the ground. Without any hesitation, he is pushed forward in the family room, tripping over himself as they walk. “Fucking stand, you idiot,” the woman shouts, shoving Stiles forward and then pulling back quickly at his wrists. He jerks at the pain, almost falling into her.

“I told you, don’t fucking hurt him!” The man’s hand raises to his father’s forehead, slamming onto his skin and banging his head up against the wood as a repercussion of his struggle. He yelps out in pain, squeezing his eyes shut as Stiles watches, barely pulling his arms away from the woman. 

It was no use; he was tied up and her grip was much stronger than he thought. 

As the men both struggle, Stiles catches a glimpse of another man behind his mother’s corpse The man steps over the body carefully and reaches down to grab the bat that Stiles was forced to drop. It had been resting in the blood that pooled on the wood, red drops falling from the handle as it was lifted. Stiles’ jaw drops at the scene. Intense fear takes over his body, forcing his body into a shaking state.

Thoughts race through Stiles’ head at light speed. He didn’t know why they were here. He didn’t know why they shot一killed一his mom. What did they need? Were his parents hiding something from him? He always thought they could trust him anything. 

That’s what they always told him.

Stiles and his father are shoved into the next room. As he’s pushed toward the couch, a gun aimed at his head, Stiles decides it’s best to sit. There’s no point in fighting with no mobility in his arms and no weapon. They had guns and would easily be able to kill him, or worse, his dad, in two seconds. He couldn’t take that risk. His father was all he had left now.

“He’s only sixteen. He doesn’t know anything. Don’t hurt him. I’m who you want,” his father confesses and he’s shoved into a sitting position on the ground, his back against the entertainment center. 

Stiles’ heart drops instantly. They  _ were _ hiding something. His mom died for a reason completely unknown to him. Why couldn’t they tell him? They were all a family.

“Dad, what do I not know?” The woman smiles at his question, seemingly entertained by the conversation taking place. Stiles glances at her worriedly before his gaze fixes back on his dad. “What am I missing?” He chokes out, tears continuing to seep from his eyes.

“Stiles, it’s not something you need to-” 

“No! What the hell is going on here? They just killed mom!” Stiles sobs, his breathing shifting to slowly become uncontrollable. His heart beats in his chest so hard he feels like he’ll explode. 

“Stiles, it’s better一safer一if you don’t know. I promise this is what’s best. I’m sorry.”

His vision blurs from the tears in his eyes. He couldn’t wrap his mind around the entire situation. What the hell was happening? 

“It’s always better when they don’t know what hit them.” The woman grins widely, a dark look in her eyes. “I want to do the honors, Chris.”

The man holding Stiles’ dad一Chris一turns around, walking over to take the bat from the other man. He holds it out to the woman, not smiling at all compared to her. She grips the bat carefully, letting her gun fall to her side. Chris continues to keep watch on Stiles as the woman moves over to his dad.

“So, I’ll make this easy if you want it to be. Tell me where they are, and I won’t beat you to death. Simple, right?” She explains.

Stiles body jerks to move toward her, but he is quickly reminded to stop by Chris’ gun pressing against his forehead. 

“I’m not telling you anything. You’ll never find them.” His dad spits back.

“Oh, okay. So the hard way it is!” She seems all too happy as she takes a step back, pulling the bat back behind her head, her grip firm around the handle. 

In a movement that’s way too quick for Stiles to follow, the bat is swung at his father’s face, blood splattering on the floor. Stiles hearing shifts quickly into high pitched long tones. His vision blurring at the sight in front of him. He cries out as the gun is pressed further into his forehead, burning his skin.

“They killed her, Noah! My niece! How can you protect some  _ monster _ like that?” the woman shouts, “What if they come after your boy? Huh? What would you do then? Tell me where they fucking are!”

Noah spits out a mouthful of blood, taking in a sharp inhale. “Never,” he tells her simply, his eyes connecting with hers.

The bat is swung again, forcing Noah’s body to fall onto its side. Stiles struggles more, the gun shoving into his forehead. He doesn’t care about the pain; they don’t get to  _ touch _ his dad.

“You fucker! Don’t hurt him!” He moves his head around quickly, the gun leaving his skin and shooting next to his ear. His hearing goes null at the sudden attack of noise, his face wincing at the knife-like pain of his loss of hearing. He moves to get up before Chris seizes his arm and rams him into the ground, his knee swiftly pressing into his spine. One hand grasps the back of Stiles’ neck, the other shoving the gun into his temple as he is forced to face the ugly scene.

Stiles yelps out in pain, tears streaming down his face as he watches the woman bend down in front of his dad.

“One. Last. Time. Where are they?”

Noah spits blood into her face from the floor, his expression showing no sign of pain. His eyes continue to look her in the eye.

Stiles cried out as the bat swung down onto his head again, knocking out his dad. The struggle was no use, but Stiles desperately continued anyway. 

A shift in the woman was extremely noticeable after his father was knocked unconscious. “You stupid old man,” she spits, lifting the bat above her head and swinging it down directly on his head. Blood pools under his skull, Stiles hearing the crack of bone from the latest swing.

Stile can’t even hear himself as he struggles and screams for her to stop. The thought of his death was unbearable, his entire body covered in pain at the thought of his father dying like this. He doesn’t deserve any of this. 

The woman continues to beat him, the bat striking and crushing his skull in, blood spilling everywhere. Every time the bat swings back up, blood drops cover the ceiling. She swings the bat quicker and quicker, as if it was the only thing she could do to breathe.

Stiles wriggles under the pressure of Chris’ body until eventually he lifts off of him, running to the woman. “Kate, stop! That’s enough. That’s  _ enough!” _ He grabs her waist, pulling her back away from Noah as she misses a swing, the bat clattering on the floor loudly.

Even without Chris holding him down, Stiles can’t move, the shock of the situation rendering him completely useless. His tears fiercely run down his face, his breath completely taken from him. 

The last view he sees before blacking out is his father’s corpse, laying on the hardwood floor. His head is beaten in and laying in a pool of blood. His mom is dead, his dead is dead; there’s nobody left. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again: Let me know if there should be additional tags in the tags list. I will add them if need be.
> 
> I want to thank Asterekmess (Livinginfictions) and Swordsoul2000 for helping me brainstorm and come up with coherent ideas for this story. I can't express how much help you guys have helped me in writing most things I have posted thus far. I love you both very much! <3
> 
> Comments and shit give me life, so don't be afraid to tell me what you think! <3


	2. A Burial that Takes a Soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! It's about time I added another chapter! XD
> 
> I'm excited about this one because I tore apart Stiles some more! Yay! (Can you sense the sarcasm....can you FEEL the amount of pain I'm in for these characters...?)
> 
> But here it is! And you all can cry with me! 
> 
> Hope you enjoy it! 
> 
> (Another warning, just make sure to read those tags. This fic do be heavy. I won't post something every chapter from now on unless something genuinely triggering comes up (I mean...I guess it's all triggering...).)

Stiles knew the visitation and burial were going to be the second most awful thing he would ever take part of. How he is going to make it through these next two days, he had no clue. But he is here now, stepping up the stairs of the funeral home in the best black clothes he could grab from his closet. He reaches for the handle of the door. As he slowly pulls it open, he shuffles inside. 

Immediately, people turn to glance at him, quickly looking down at the floor after getting a glimpse of his face.

_ Do I look that bad? Jesus, okay. _

He stepped to a stop, glancing around nervously at everyone before also looking down at the carpet. He knew people would feel bad, but the way everyone held themselves around him made Stiles uneasy. The way they cough softly as they stare downward makes Stiles’ ears hurt. The standoff continues uncomfortably until Lydia gently pushes through the crowd to make her way to Stiles.

She approaches him, not looking as awful about seeing him. It comforts Stiles more than he can tell her. “Hey, Stiles. I know everyone asks this and you’re probably tired of hearing it, but how are you doing?”

Stiles looks up at her, eyes connecting with hers. He saw a desperate want to help in her eyes. It was a stark contrast to the gloom in everyone else’s eyes. 

There are two ways he can answer that question: One, he was feeling absolutely terrible and feels intense guilt for not being able to save his family and being completely useless in the entire situation that ended in their death. Or two, he was doing fine and just needs some time, despite how completely dismal he looks to the people around him.

He decides on the latter, not wanting to upset anyone else around him. He takes a deep breath in and thinks he can tell her. However, Lydia just looks back into his eyes.

“Hey, what’s up,” she questions, letting her hand rest on the side of his forearm, “You know what, you can tell me when you’re comfortable, okay? I don’t want to push.” She smiles at him, as if she is happy that he was able to make it this far. He takes that as a sign to continue walking in, Lydia shifting to stay by his side.

As Stiles walks through the rooms filled with the faces of people living in Beacon Hills, he doesn’t recognize most of them. Eyes shift quickly around him, being careful not to stick to him for too long. Stiles keeps his gaze down to the red carpet below him to keep from focusing on it too much. He hears the voices of them dancing around the room in tiny whispers, unable to focus enough on what each individual is saying. 

He reaches the doorway to the main room, lifting his head and stopping for a moment as he stares at the chairs that lead up to the two caskets at the other end of the room. Lydia rubs his back a little bit, presenting him with a weak side-smile. Stiles can’t bring himself to give her one back.

He takes a shaky breath in, his hands starting to shake at his sides. “Hey,” Lydia offers, “We can wait a few more minutes if you’re not ready.” 

Stiles shakes his head, “I’m一it’s okay. I can do it,” he lets out shyly. He takes a step forward, Lydia following suit.

His feet drag slightly on the carpet beneath his shoes, his breathing becoming more intense as he gets closer. Reaching the end of the line of bodies waiting to move forward and touch the caskets, Stiles stops with Lydia. His gaze shifts over to her, noticing her beautiful black dress, lace trim around the bottom of the skirt and around her neck. She wore simple earrings that were accentuated by her beautifully draped, strawberry-blonde hair. She really did try to look her best for this occasion一for Stiles. Or so he hoped anyway.

“So, do you have a eulogy written for tomorrow?” Lydia asks softly. Stiles gives her a quick nod. “If you want, I can help you with that. You don’t have to do it all alone.” 

Stiles lets out a small breath, a lump forming in his throat. A fragile smile forms across his face, grateful for the help she’s offering. The only response she gives him is a tilt of her head onto his shoulder, her hand slipping into his and squeezing tightly. 

“I promise, you don’t have to do this alone.” 

They step forward as the line moves forward. Stiles squeezes her hand back, tilting his head steadily to rest on top of hers. 

Lydia had been a great friend to Stiles ever since they met in elementary school. Stiles found it hard to make and keep friends at school, his ADHD making it miserable to focus on school work and keep friends interested in him. However, when he met Lydia, she was tolerant of his personality. She talked to him when no one else would and even introduced him to new people that he could make friends with. 

They stayed friends throughout middle school and into high school. He wasn’t surprised at her support for him during this time, but he did find himself overwhelmingly grateful for her. He couldn’t imagine not having her by his side. 

They stay leaning on each other, carefully taking steps forward until it’s their turn. Lydia swings their hands forward, motioning for Stiles to go first. He lets his hand slip from hers as he steps forward. 

The caskets are closed as his parents’ bodies weren’t “fit enough” for viewing. Instead, large pictures of them in formal clothes while smiling were on stands behind each corresponding casket.

As he takes in the pictures, their smiles, their eyes, the shape of their faces, Stiles’ mind slips back to the images of them both after everything happened.

_ He remembers his father’s head, bashed in completely, only small remnants of any facial features left. He sees the blood pooled underneath him, the puddle thick and large enough for Stiles’ reflection to barely be made out as he stared into it in horror, unable to move. _

_ When he snaps to, he runs to his mother, also laying in a puddle of blood. However, instead of a completely mangled and crushed skull, there’s a hole in her forehead and one of her eyes. He knew the bullets must have gone through her brain, killing her instantly.  _

_ At least she went quickly.  _

_ His dad had to suffer. _

Stiles’ breathing quickens at a rapid pace, the air audibly puffing in and out of his nose. His vision blurs slightly, his hands shaking more violently. Before he knows it, Lydia is pulling him out of the view of people behind him. 

He collapses into a corner in the back hallway of the funeral home, pulling his knees up to his chest and stuffing his face in his hands. Tears are already falling into his lap as he attempts to gain control of his lungs, desperately trying to focus on Lydia trying to soothe him. 

He catches snippets of her voice, piecing them together as best as he can before he is grounded by Lydia’s hands resting on his cheeks. He’s forced to look into her face as he shakes under her hands.

He doesn’t listen to her before he forces himself to explain. “They don’t一they look一that’s not them. It’s not-” His breath leaves him again, inhaling oxygen rapidly to catch up. His chest burns, his heartbeat pushing through his ribs. 

_ They don’t look like that now. I can’t unsee what they look like. Lydia… _

“I know, Stiles. I know. I’m sorry, I can’t help. That’s the best way for this to happen, okay?” Lydia soothes, rubbing her thumbs over the skin on his cheek. 

Stiles’ hands move up to cover hers. He closes his eyes, tears forcefully being shoved down his face as he tenses his entire body. Lydia pulls his head toward her chest, wrapping her arms around him as he cries.

“I’m sorry, Stiles. I’m sorry this is happening. But I’m here. I’m not leaving.”

Stiles continues being held in Lydia’s arms for a few minutes before slowly starting to relax his breathing and untense his body. The burning in his chest slowly subsides and his heartbeat reaches it’s normal pace again. However, even after calming down, he continues to stay in Lydia’s embrace. 

It’s comfort that he hasn’t had the last week, with all of the questions from the police trying to piece together what happened. They practically interrogated him, trying to find some sort of useful information. Very quickly, they recognize the people as the Argent family. 

Chris Argent was the father of a girl named Allison, someone who was only a year older than Stiles was. She had been mysteriously killed weeks before Stiles and his parents had their meeting with the Argents. Based on the information that Stiles gave them about the conversation points that were had during that night, the police had a good reason as to why the Argents must have been targeting Stiles’ parents: His parents must have known something about her death and they were trying to get it out of them. 

But, as Stiles pointed out after talking to them, that didn’t work out in their favor. He felt as if something was missing. After all, his dad said it was safer if he didn’t know. But, why would the Argents kill them both一his mother without even interrogating her一without getting whatever information they wanted? There had to be something else going on, but Stiles couldn’t place what it was. It’s been bugging him this past week, festering in his brain, ripping it apart with dread.

He doesn’t know if he wants to know what that secret is or not.

~~~~~

Stiles roams around the empty carcass of a building that is his home. Things are very different now, and it eats at Stiles to no end. The absence of noise means that every small noise he made echoes loudly in his brain off the walls of the house. He tried his best to keep quiet, but to no avail.

His footsteps sound loudly down the main hall of the house. The creaking pulls through the wooden floor boards eerily. He makes his way quietly down the hall and to the basement door, stepping to a stop as he moves his hand to rest on the doorframe. 

They could’ve moved faster, they could’ve made it to the basement. Stiles never realized it before, but after a week of thinking of what dark secrets his family might have been hiding, he realized that the safe room that was built into the home shortly after he was born was most likely put there to protect his family from the Argents.

Stiles also couldn’t help but wonder more on the topic of the Argents. Why they came was still unknown, but he wondered if there was some sort of problem that had spanned generations. Having a safe room built and in the house for the 16 years Stiles had been alive makes it seem like his family’s murder was more than just due to a one time incident. Whatever happened had been an on-going struggle between them. It  _ had  _ to be.

The police went through and cleaned up all the messes that were made due to the Argents breaking in. However, that doesn’t stop Stiles from seeing pools of blood on the floor. It doesn’t stop him from seeing their bodies laying there.

He forces his eyes closed, letting his forehead move slowly to the door frame, resting on the wood. He takes a deep breath, driving his lungs to continue inhaling and exhaling properly. He couldn’t let his breath escape his grasp. If he did, he wouldn’t be able to move from this spot in the hallway. He’d be trapped forever in a spiral of freaking out and imagining his parents’ bodies on the floor.

Keeping his eyes closed, Stiles shuffles his way back down the hallway where he came from. His hand continues skimming across the wall, the other sticking out in front of him. He knows nothing is there, but it’s impulse, and it’s comforting to know that nobody is going to randomly pop up in front of him. 

Once his hand skims across the banister, he carefully makes his way around and up the first few stairs. He continues upward, opening his eyes halfway up. The walls of the stairwell cover his view of the hallway, keeping him safe from any visions his brain tricks him into seeing.

He makes it to the top of the stairs, quickly turning to move down the hallway and enter his room. He closes the door softly. The click of the door doesn’t echo through his room, giving him more of a sense of safety.

His room was always his space. His mother and father rarely ever entered without permission. They occupied the rest of the house, so they dedicated this space to him and only him. So if Stiles is in his room, then it isn’t empty like the rest of the house. Without his parents, the rest of the house is empty because they  _ should _ be in that space with him. 

They should be with him, and he couldn’t move past that. 

But his room is safe. Here, he is safe and he could manage that. He could manage occupying this small space by himself. The rest of the house, he couldn’t. 

He didn’t feel the need to turn on any lights, just as he hadn’t downstairs. He relishes in the darkness, since the curtains keep out the moonlight that had previously illuminated the visions downstairs. He trips over the rug on the floor sliding over to his bed, barely recovering before flopping onto the mattress. 

He wiggles his way under the comforter, sliding his body into a comfortable position on the bed. Pulling one of the pillows toward him, he wraps his arms around it, stuffing his face into it. He lets out a heavy breath, the heat of the air dancing all across his face. 

The warmth of the blankets around him and the comfort of the pillow quickly lull Stiles into sleep, exhaustion from the past week slowly leaving his body as he sleeps.

~~~~~

The car ride to the cemetery is long and slow, leaving Stiles to sit in the back seat of Mrs. Martin’s car while just staring out the window. The houses pass by at a snail’s pace as all of the cars drive to the cemetery steadily. 

Lydia offers her hand to Stiles when he glances over at her, but he looks down at the seat in between them and then looks back out the window. He knows she means well, but he doesn’t think holding someone’s hand is going to make that empty feeling in his heart go away. He just has to make it through the burial and then try to piece together his life.

A view of metal fences makes its way into Stiles’ vision, marking the edge of the graveyard that would house his parents’ bodies. Stiles lets his tongue poke out to wet his lips before looking back over to Lydia. She’s also looking out his window, seemingly distressed by the way her face looks. Stiles lets out a small breath, snapping Lydia back to reality. 

“What,” she asks quickly, “I’m fine.”

Stiles eyebrows furrow at the reassurance, although he knows she’s not telling the truth. She is in the same boat as he is, even though she doesn’t have to deal with the death of his parents on the same level he does. However, she knew them too, and it is difficult for anyone involved in this funeral to fathom the thought of the Stilinski family only consisting of Stiles now.

His parents made such an impact on the town. Beacon Hills wasn’t big一despite not being super small either一so they knew most of the people in the town. Conversations flowed between neighbors like it was nothing. Not only did his parents converse with nearly everyone, they all acted like they knew Stiles as well. Even though he barely knew them in his mind, they were still kind and tried to have small conversations with him whenever he was around town.

Now that he thinks about it, he feels guilty for not recognizing anyone at the visitation. He feels awkward not being able to just converse with them, no matter what the topic is. He spent so much time in his childhood feeling weird about them just approaching him that it kept him from getting the love of the town that he felt like would be useful right now. He needed people to lean on, and despite Lydia being there every step of the way, he felt like the whole town’s support would be extremely helpful for his mental health. 

His father was the Sheriff—he knew almost everyone, and they all knew him. The support would’ve come quickly if Stiles had just tried a little harder before his parent’s passing.

But his thoughts are interrupted by the turn of the car into the cemetery. The road gently curves around a little as they make their way into the depths of the maze of gravestones. Eventually, through the stone and grass and trees, a small area with two holes dug in the ground, surrounded by chairs, came into view. Two caskets float above the holes, held up by small metal contraptions that Stiles knows would aid in the final movements of his parents’ bodies. 

Mrs. Martin brings the car to a soft stop and Stiles opens the car door. As soon as his foot makes contact with the ground, the events launching their way at him come in a blur. He doesn’t remember moving to go sit down, or when Lydia sits next to him and places her hand on his leg to keep him from bouncing his leg too much. He doesn’t remember when the entire service officially starts, or when he is pulled up to give his eulogy to the entire audience around him. He just finds himself there, tugging the paper out from his pant pocket and unfolding it.

He stands there, staring down at the paper in disbelief. This couldn’t be happening right now. He couldn’t be ready to give his parents’ eulogy. He couldn’t talk about how amazing they were and how much he is going to miss them and how they are  _ gone _ now. They can’t be gone. He can’t be alone.

The words are all there, written on the page in slightly scribbled hand-writing. He never was the best hand-writer, but that doesn’t change how he can’t physically form the words on his tongue to speak out what he had written. He desperately tries to voice out the words, tightening his stomach to force out any sound that he could. 

But he couldn’t. No words were coming out. He finds himself stuck in a repeating pattern of rereading the words over and over, unable to actually articulate them verbally. Anxiety loops around his brain, pushing his brain into the corner of his skull.

Was there even a point in trying to articulate how he feels about his parents? Everybody in town already seems to know him enough. They would understand. They would understand that this is a lot of work to go through; the eulogy, the police investigation, the never-ending hole in his soul that would never be filled again without his parents. 

It makes sense, right? It does to him.

After reading the paper over six times, his focus moves up to the people in front of him. Some of them look confused, others maybe even bored. A lot of them just stared at him anxiously. Lydia watches from the front row, a worried look plastered on her face. 

Stiles’ eyes widen at her, sending a look of distress her way that prompts her to intervene. She rises from her chair, shooting a look at the grass quickly and then reconnecting her gaze with his.

As she comes into his space, she whispers “Hey, it’s okay. Do you want me to read it for you?”

Stiles doesn’t respond in any way other than looking at the ground guiltily and then reluctantly handing her the paper. Lydia gives him a small touch on his arm before reading over the paper swiftly, beginning to read it aloud.

But as she does, Stiles finds himself drifting. His mind wanders in a desperate attempt to escape the situation. Any hint of help, any sign of comfort anywhere would provide escape. He needs something, anything to get out of this situation.

Lydia continues his speech as Stiles’ tears fall onto the grass below. His breathing stays relatively steady, but the blur in his vision created by the tears forbids him to look up at the audience around him. So, he continues to look downward. His stare at the grass takes his focus as he cries and Lydia reads the eulogy. 

When Stiles blinks, forcing more tears to drop from his face, Lydia is finished, placing a hand on his shoulder and squeezing. He follows her as they both go to sit back down. As he sits, Stiles recognizes a guilt within him for not listening to Lydia read his eulogy. Despite him knowing what he had written, he felt like that was too important to have just not registered.

And it was only going to happen once.

Events blur more as Stiles sees the coffins begin to get lowered into the ground. Stiles stands quickly, Lydia reaching to grab his arm. As he attempts to take a step forward, she pulls him back, keeping him in place.

_ There’s no way this is fucking happening right now. They can’t be getting buried. _

The fact that he never got to say goodbye ate at his insides. He never got to give them a proper goodbye. The last things they got to remember was worrying about how their son was going to survive. He couldn’t imagine how  _ scared _ his father was underneath his strong façade that night. How helpless he must have felt.

And Stiles felt uncontrollable guilt from not being able to save them. He didn’t know how he could have saved them, but he should have thought of something. He knew he could have. Why didn’t he? What stopped him from really fighting back? He knew ways of dodging shots and pushing guns out of enemy hands. Being a sheriff’s son granted him that knowledge fairly quickly. He should have done something to disarm them.

He should have done  _ something. _ But that doesn’t stop the feeling inside him that is consuming him like a black hole. There is no escaping it.

And as he gets prepared to line up and drop the first handful of dirt onto their caskets, Stiles lets out shaky breaths, his anxiety taking hold of him again. Lydia was behind him, watching intently as his hand hovers over his mother’s casket. The dirt slides from his palm, landing on the wooden cover in small patters. 

He turns to pick up another handful of dirt, adjusting his position to reach over his father’s grave.

“I’m sorry Dad,” he whispers to himself. 

The dirt drops from his hand onto the wood. As it does, the soil feels like it rips out a portion of his soul as well, leaving Stiles standing above his father’s grave in a state of disbelief and grief that overwhelm him. 

This was it; his parents were being buried now, and Stiles couldn’t accept it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and shit give me life, so don't be afraid to tell me what you think!


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